


Good Morning, Starshine (The Earth Says Hello)

by TheFisherKitty



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Accidental Marriage, Fluff and Crack, Light Angst, M/M, One Night Stands, Romance, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25950160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFisherKitty/pseuds/TheFisherKitty
Summary: Zefram Cochrane and the captain of the Vulcan vessel make first contact... lots of first contact.
Relationships: Zefram Cochrane/Solkar
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	Good Morning, Starshine (The Earth Says Hello)

**Author's Note:**

> Drunk sex is implied but 1) Zefram Cochrane is always drunk apparently and 2) it’s doubtful Solkar was that affected. Noting it here for those who don’t want.
> 
> This is the product of an ongoing discussion with a friend about how that first Vulcan who checked out humans was probably a little off if he gave Vulcans a reason to think humans are a friendship they’d want.

Zefram Cochrane awoke in the cold, crisp light of a Montana dawn, so like a thousand others, yet completely unlike all that came before. It was the first dawn of a new age, an age of warp travel and relations with too many alien races to count, according to those 24th century weirdos who’d left the night before just when the party had gotten good. A cryin’ shame, Zefram thought; they’d been a fun enough bunch. Then again, perhaps it was for the best that some things got left out of the historical record. 

His mouth tasted like a dog’s ass, he assessed as he unstuck his tongue from his upper palate. Coffee would do the trick, always worked to dispel the taste of stale booze. He rose, sheet slipping away, and caring nothing for the fact that he wore not a stitch. He stretched tall, joints and spine popping, his cock flopping soft against his balls. Last night had been a hell of a thing to leave the old boy spent for this long, he thought. 

His mouth quirked up in a half-smile as he cast a glance at the sleeping figure in his bed. The early light of day bathed over a head of straight, dark, gleaming hair buried face-down in the pillow, a lithely muscled back, and an ass that could have been cut from marble, but for the deep olive tone of the skin. An ass that had given him as good of a ride last night as he’d gotten from the first warp flight yesterday.

Pawing through all those robes had been well worth the effort.

He lit his stove burner and set the coffee pot on it, the gentle sounds of percolating brew softening the sharp stillness of the morning. Some things really were better the old fashioned way. Humming an old tune to himself as he poured the coffee, he heard sheets rustling behind him, and he turned to greet his waking bedmate with a beverage and a smile.

The Vulcan sat up stiffly, the sheet pooling around his waist as he smacked his lips with a faint look of distaste. His long, agile fingers drifted up to prod at what Zefram thought was a fairly marvelous, deep green hickey blooming on the side of his neck, eyes widening slightly as he explored the tender patch of flesh. These Vulcans blushed green, too, Zefram had discovered, recalling the olive flush riding high on chiseled cheekbones as the man from another world had pushed back to meet his pounding thrusts the night before. The memory made him shiver as a pulse of arousal threatened to wake his well-sated cock.

None of that just yet, he thought. Trying to fuck his extraterrestrial guest again without the offer of coffee after a night of drinking like that would be just plain rude. He offered one of the mismatched mugs, the fancier one with garish orange and yellow flowers on olive green ceramic, to the alien man.

“It’ll help with the taste,” he explained, demonstrating with a sip of his own as he settled back onto his mattress, the Vulcan following suit and seeming to not dislike the morning ritual particularly. A tepid people, these, unless one managed to get them to let their hair down. The others of their group hadn’t seemed particularly impressed and had gone back to the ship for the night; Zefram was mightily surprised when he’d gotten this one, the leader - Solar, or something like... Solkar? Solkar, to let him take him home.

The Vulcan’s eyes roamed over his naked body as they drank, and Zefram had the odd feeling he was being cataloged in some way, though his rising erection didn’t seem to mind. Something appeared to be rising under the sheet that lay across the Vulcan’s hips, as well. The alien set his coffee aside, reached out, and ran the tips of his first two fingers down the back of Zefram’s hand. Zefram recalled this from the previous night, and supposing it was some Vulcan sex thing, he quickly deposited his own cup on the crate serving as a nightstand. 

Solkar - Zefram was really quite sure of the man’s name, at this point - rolled the human under him, pressing against him an impressive display of arousal. Cochrane had thought it was his drunken state that had made it seem so large as it slid through his fist last night, but he now realized that had been no illusion. Solkar swiftly dragged his fingers through the tub of lube left out last night, and plunged a slick digit straight up Zefram’s asshole - _efficient_ people, these Vulcans, Zefram thought, as he threw his head back into the pillow and prepared for the third ride of a lifetime in less than twenty-four hours.

How’s _this_ for the damn monument, he thought, just before all coherent thought was replaced with Solkar.

—-

The Vulcans stayed for a week. Though the rest of them interacted with the locals at a distance, Solkar found his way back to Zefram’s bed nightly. Zefram had the feeling that a number of excuses, some less than truthful, were being made to the crew of the Vulcan ship to justify this behavior. As for his fellow humans, none of them batted an eye; they’d learned to accept the weird shit he got up to years ago, and everyone was just relieved there had been no death rays involved in first contact.

“It has been… trying, since my mate passed,” Solkar had said on the night before the Vulcans were to leave, dark eyes shining in the moonlight. Zefram had left it alone. There were some things a man didn’t discuss through a talking metal box unless he didn’t have a choice. Besides which, he’d learned the Vulcans valued a certain abstention from emotional displays, and Zefram Cochrane was about as well off as a bull in a China shop when it came to talking about feelings. He took the opportunity to nail the Vulcan to the sheets again, instead.

And then it was time. The Vulcan crew stood before their ship with stiff formality. They held up their hands in that strange way of theirs, and though Zefram knew it was unlikely, he thought something about Solkar’s eyes looked hollow, perhaps even sad. The Vulcan dropped the gesture and lowered his hand as though to offer a handshake, as Zefram had done when they had first arrived. Instead, after a moment’s pause, he held out two fingers. Zefram mirrored the action, and Solkar touched the tips of their fingers together, murmuring something softly in Vulcan as his crewmates, their eyes widened marginally, looked on with what seemed like confused disapproval.

Zefram felt as though he’d missed something important, but before he could put the pieces together, the Vulcans retreated to their ship.

“Well, it was nice knowing you,” he muttered. He felt suddenly that he didn’t want to watch the ship take off, and stalked into the bar. He poured a drink, downed it, poured another, and as he heard the ship take off, he kicked life into the jukebox with extra frustration.

It played that same tune he’d had in his head that first morning after, the mindlessly pleasant lyrics turned maudlin in hindsight.

He didn’t feel like dancing.

“Zefram.”

He turned, freshly emptied glass lowering slowly from his lips as he saw the figure standing there, robes silhouetted by the setting sun that traced brightly around black hair and pointed ears. 

“Solkar?”

Zefram hardly dared believe he was there.

“It has been decided I will remain behind to… liaise,” the Vulcan explained, his universal translator picking up the flowing Vulcan language.

Zefram stepped close to the man.

“That translator doodad didn’t pick up what you said back at the ship.”

Solkar regarded him, a softness in his eyes that didn’t quite match his impassive demeanor.

He again held up two fingers. Zefram Cochrane again matched the gesture.

“I cherish thee,” Solkar said softly. “Though it was not my intent, we have bonded. It is therefore not my wish to leave.”

Zefram looked at their paired fingertips.

“Bonded? As in… _married?_ ”

Solkar thought for a moment, and gave a slight nod.

“So you’re not leaving, then,” Zefram said.

Solkar shook his head, a human gesture he’d picked up over the week.

Zefram fisted his robes tightly and pulled him in for a searing kiss; how the Vulcan could retain his regal formality while melting against him, Zefram had no idea, but it was happening.

“We have to celebrate,” Zefram declared as the kiss broke.

He dragged Solkar to the center of the floor for a dance as the rest of the encampment, sensing another lively night, began to join the party. Solkar navigated the floor jerkily yet energetically in an approximation of Zefram’s wild gyrations. Solkar was not the best dancer, Zefram thought, but a hell of a partner all the same.

“Perhaps,” Solkar said later as the pair paused for a drink, “you will meet my offspring one day.”

Zefram, though he would later deny it, nearly spit out his liquor.

“Your WHAT?”

He wondered, not for the last time in his life, how Solkar’s eyes could look like the man was laughing at him while his face remained completely still.


End file.
